At the Edge of the Game (24 page)

‘Don’t let up,
lads!’

The battle fever
has them all, but not me. I think I’m going into shock. I’m not up to this,
especially now that they do let up, and the laughing starts.

An ambush well
planned and executed. Heathshade has some Neanderthal blood in him. The proof:
Boehm’s book.

Ammatas works
the whip to keep the animals moving towards the west. The back of the jerking
cart is not the most comfortable venue in which to read, but the book was in my
belongings. I didn’t pack it. Neither did Helen, she says. I find the page on
which I stopped all those months and – as I recall the ambassador remarking – ‘Neanderthal
bows are crude, and the third line will have to move well up the hill before
the enemy is within range of sharpened wooden arrows’. Ah, yes. The battle. ‘The
railway track runs along the foot of the hill that the Neanderthal warriors are
about to scale. Impressive earthworks await them at the top. Sharpened beams
protrude from the circular mound, and a deep, dry moat rings its outer edge. The
steel-tipped assegais and pikes of the defending warriors flash in the
afternoon sun. The clan living on the hill is in possession of weaponry beyond
the means of most Neanderthals. How they could have acquired it is difficult to
imagine. Perhaps they have sparked the envy of their neighbours with their
wealth, and that is the genesis of the current conflict. The defenders are
issuing defiant roars that carry down the hillside on the dry breeze.

Just visible
behind the earthworks are a few of the low mud-and-thatch huts of their
settlement. These buildings stand in the midst of fruit-bearing trees that
probably serve to lend them additional structural stability. A single vulture
is circling above the settlement.

With a sequence
of calls running down the line, the heavy infantry begins to ascend the hill. Their
progress has none of the discipline of a typical Sapient military manoeuvre. They
are not ten paces forward before the line starts to lose its shape, as some
warriors proceed more quickly than others, while some groups cross over the
paths of their fellows, causing additional confusion. When they have gone about
twenty paces, the light infantry begins to move, though more slowly. When the
first line reaches about halfway up the hill, a few the defenders, men and
women, appear over their earthworks and roll large stones down the slope. The
stones accelerate rapidly and bounce off crags hidden in the grassy hillside. The
attackers' line disintegrates further as individuals move this way and that to
avoid being struck. All are successful, but the stones career past them into
the light infantry with almost no warning and strike down several warriors. The
heavy infantry give an angry roar and resume their climb with more focused
intent. Before they have gone more than another few steps, the defenders'
archers step up and send volley after volley of steel-tipped arrows into the
ascending throng. Many are struck down in this withering barrage. Those that
remain brandish their assegais and their zurks and press forward in fury. The archers'
onslaught continues unabated.

At last the
heavy infantry are within throwing range with their assegais. The archers
retreat behind the earthworks and are replaced immediately by a line of
armoured assegai-bearers. The attackers suffer heavily as these steel-headed
shafts are flung expertly downhill upon them. Their own flint-headed shafts are
less effective, particularly as they are being propelled uphill by rapidly
tiring warriors. A few attackers make it across the dry moat, past the sharp
spikes of the circular mound, and swing their zurks at the defenders. These
braves, however, are quickly cut down by pikesmen.

A call from a
captain further down the hill signals the withdrawal of the heavy infantry. They
have suffered a good many casualties, including more than a score of fatalities
that I can see from where I stand. As they descend the hill, the light infantry
moves up to take their place. The archers follow these, about twenty paces
behind. The light infantry moves to within assegai range of the defenders with
more ease than the heavy infantry had enjoyed. It seems as though the defenders
are now running short of arrows. The attackers' archers shoot over the heads of
the light infantry and into the settlement. So many arrows rain down with such
unrelenting intensity that it is difficult to imagine that any of the defenders
have not been struck. However, as the light infantry attempt to cross the moat,
a few last, desperate volleys from the village archers fall upon them. These
again retreat into the settlement and are replaced by pikesmen and
assegai-throwers, who thrust and slash at the attackers, keeping them at bay. The
village archers return shortly, their quivers replenished, apparently with the
arrows lately shot into the settlement by the attackers. Their renewed barrage
drives the light infantry further back. Another captain's call from down the
hill signals a second retreat.

Old Neanderthal
women at the foot of the hill tend to the injured. The others regroup halfway
down the slope, where the defenders' arrows can cause them little trouble. The
remains of the light and heavy infantry combine with the archers, who fling
away their bows and empty quivers. They swiftly form into a wide line. The
defenders stand on their earth battlements and call to them scornfully,
brandishing assegais, pikes, even swords. They, drunk on the elation of their
success, are keen for more. The attackers, a single wave hundreds strong, begin
a fresh assault. The villagers jeer and taunt them until they are within thirty
paces of the earthworks. Then the battlefield goes almost silent. When the
attackers are almost at the moat, the defending archers have at them with all
remaining arrows. Many attacking warriors are stricken down. Their fellows
respond with a mighty roar. They charge forward in a headlong rush onto the
battlements, answering the thrusts of the defenders with slashes and blows of
their own. The villagers hold them at bay for several minutes, until at last
the defensive line is breached and attackers pour into the village. The
remaining defenders lose hope and drop their weapons, crying for mercy. Some
are spared. Others are cut down without compunction. The screams of villager
women and children carry down to where we stand and watch. Presently, these
screams are drowned out by the joyous cries of the victorious warriors as they
realise that the village is completely theirs.

The Sapient
audience is silent and sombre. Gone is the giddy festiveness of a short time
ago. Nobody wants to see any more. In small groups, people turn and walk back
towards the train. I and my three protectors turn away from the blood-soaked
battlefield and join them. Even my tough Plainsmen seem to have been moved by
the spectacle we have just witnessed. Parents carry along their silent
children, who clutch them tightly. Paz notices the growing number of vultures
now circling overhead, and grunts angrily. His hand goes to his weapon as
though he would like to start firing into the sky at them.

The train is
about three stadia away, down a gentle slope that dips into a wide, shallow
valley. Beyond it, the railway line curves around to the right and follows the
valley southwards, back towards the rain forest we have so lately left. Ripples,
driven by the breeze, run through the wide expanse of grass. I take a kind of
desolate pleasure in the feeling of the cleansing fresh air in my face.

An engine noise
becomes audible. At first I think it is the train, but it more closely
resembles the sound of a low aircraft. I spot a vapour trail in the clear
eastern sky and follow it to its source, a glistening silver object flying very
rapidly at a low altitude. As I watch, it flies wide to the north and banks
around, its red-painted, stubby wings briefly becoming visible. I and my
bodyguards instantly recognise it for what it is. We drop to the ground and cry
out to those around us to do the same. Some obey immediately, while others look
at us in puzzlement. We call out to those far ahead us, but they do not hear. The
missile is close enough now for us to see its glowing rocket exhaust behind it.
It is approaching at incredible speed. It slams into the stationary train and
detonates with a tremendous explosion. The train is ripped to shreds, and the
heat and the force of the shockwave cut down those closest to it. Debris flies
high into the air, and soon is raining down upon us, shards of glass, bits of
metal, pelting the empty landscape around us, cutting down the exultant
warriors behind us celebrating their recent victory.

There are screams
and men falling.
Need to get
out of here, need air, even air tainted with the rising steam of cooling
corpses.

I stumble to the
stairs and clatter down, unsteady on the thin, loose carpet held on by
burnished metal stays of times long gone.

‘Hey!’
Heathshade shouts. ‘Grab him, lads.’

I fall through
the front door, splash in the runoff-diluted blood. Two of the lads catch me
and drag me back to the hallway. One of the IRA corpses is not dead. He’s
wounded in the side, or maybe in the arm, his tough combat coat ripped open. He’s
shooting up at the windows. Sense of direction as poor as tactical sense: not
only is he about to be cut down, but… you’re running the wrong way mate. That’s
the river down there.

‘Stay here.’

They shove me
into a sitting position on the bottom stair. Their aim is even worse than the
fugitive’s direction and tactics. He gets all the way to the bridge without
being hit. He’ll make it to cover, fools.

No. After all,
he won’t. The sight of the women at the other side of the bridge is too much
for him. Over the wall he goes, into the brown torrents, and is seen no more.

The remainder of
the paramilitary garrison surrendered last night, and to celebrate Heathshade
went to bed with Daisy Carruth. To the hero, the reward. He’s commandeered a
prime duplex apartment above the bicycle shop, and claimed her into the
bargain.

To us, also a
reward – plentiful food, a comfortable berth in the Main Street, repose in a
soft bed, fire-warmed water with which to wash.

Meanwhile, the
IRA survivors are stuck in Garda station cells, their weeping and gnashing
women and children locked in unsanitary St Nicholas’.

Heathshade got
us this admirable property, for which he must be given some credit. But what
Heathshade gives with one hand, being the judicious chap he is, he takes away
with the other. He’s remained silent on the crucial role I played in the town’s
triumph. So I remain the coward pariah, the unconscionable reject who would not
put his life on the line. They say what about the twenty dead men stretched out
in the Green School hall – should not one of their families get the flat
instead of the coward and his woman, who have done nothing for us.

I know the
mentality well – congenitally angry people whose innate instinct for antagonism
is in constant scan mode for an easy target. Never mind that all survivors are
billeted within a one-minute walk of the Main Street; nor that we, unlike so
many, have not taken part in the looting, nor in the stupid wastage of food, nor
the squabbling over stockpiles of drink. How am I to tell them what I did to
save them? What if Heathshade didn’t back me up? He mightn’t, and I can’t take
the risk. Even Helen didn’t fully believe me.

I hate this
feeling. It might as well be a lie, feels like it is one even though it isn’t. But
I shall hold horns high, hood up, ignore their looks and their muttering as I
turn the corner onto bloodstained Bridge Street.

The river level
has fallen – no need to wade through water to get to the Old Bridge. Plenty of
time, and no excuse not to get to the Friary for twelve o’clock. Friar Aspen
put it about this that there would be a Mass of thanksgiving at noon. Not sure
whether it’s a Sunday. Think it is. It would be disrespectful not to show up, I
figure. Helen can stay in bed. I’ll represent both of us.

More blood on
the damp bridge stone washing slowly through drainage holes, dripping into the
Suir. Broken glass in the shops at the far side. That red-brick house opposite
the Friary has burnt down. How did that happen? A great pile of rubbish outside
the church doors. The Friars have been busy, clearing out the place. Inside there
are no pews – chopped up for the fires. We shall play the part of Orthodox
Christians for the day. I wish I were really Orthodox, sitting outside some
café in a clement Aegean harbour. But where are the people? Five here – three
old women, a man and a child. None I recognise. They know who I am though,
judging by how they look at me.

The Friar stands
in non-ceremonial anorak and Wellington boots. His face is wet, eyes raw. He is
spitting fire in a voice raspy with pain:

‘The Body too.
Even that...’

There will be no
Mass after all. Someone has stolen the unconsecrated wine and wafer. Putative
Body and Blood doomed to become of like substance with the iniquitous physical
vessel of a thief.

Since I’m not a
welcome part of this group of tut-tutters and comforters, I feel that I have
every right to back away, take my leave.

Yet I lack
stomach for the immediate prospect of a return to that chilly, silent apartment
where there is little to be said, and even less to do. So I head up through the
graveyard, past the other church, trudge through the mud and the strewn rubbish
up the deserted slope towards the pineta above the town.